


Flight of the Nightingale

by Androida



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25418602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Androida/pseuds/Androida
Summary: One night Cecilia takes on a drunken dare that catapults her into fame. That fame brings her to Mandragora, and to the infamous Cintrian.Cecilia Bellante's story imagined -- what led to the conclusion we saw in Witcher 3 DLC Blood and Wine. (Minor spoiler)
Relationships: Cecilia Bellante / The Cintrian
Kudos: 2





	1. Moths to a Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Story written mostly using characters that, aside from Orianna, are just mentioned in the game. Ends at events depicted in the quest The Man from Cintra.
> 
> I have wanted to write a story about Cecilia for a while now as we spend a whole quest in the game trying to find her. 
> 
> Rating due to mature themes. Not sure if the relationship tag for Cecilia/The Cintrian is really fitting but included it anyway.
> 
> EDIT: 08/28/2020: Improved summary, typo hunt

* * *

Little Cecilia, unremarkable in a crowd, average everything and special nothing. That's how it had been for the first twenty or so years of her life, and that's how it was supposed to be, were it not for the night she had said yes to a drunken dare.

Her so called friends - a mixed crew of poets, painters, bards, and even one famously infamous belle du jour - had decreed in their intoxicated stupor that the perfect task in a game of truth and dare would be for Cecilia to go out and perform. Toss aside false modesty, rebuke your shyness, cast away your fake prudishness and sing - we know you can!

Cecilia had shaken her head furiously, her cheeks burning horribly hot with embarrassment for having been put on the spot, but that had just stoked the fires of them egging her on. When they had started presenting her with alternative options, such as kissing (with tongue!) Jacques the restaurateur down the block, or downing a bottle of vodka (publicly on the street!), or writing a dirty (scandalously so!) limerick for the Duchess, she had finally agreed.

Her shoulders slumped, eyes cast aside, voice in monotone, she had asked, "To whom shall I serenade, then?"

Dubrik, a young painter with well-known proclivity for working only with nude models, thinking himself the younger, more talented version of Dorian Vilesse, promptly suggested that each of them should write a name on a note and Cecilia would then close her eyes and pull one from a hat.

"No, she should pull one from my phants," hollered completely inebriated Alexandr, gulping down his sixth absinthe behind her.

_Never again._

"Oh you shush," said Beatrice and swat him on his upper arm with her notebook. "If Cecilia is going to pull out any tickets from our personal wardrobes, it shall be from my bodice only!"

_Never again._

Beatrice's declaration sent everybody roaring in laughter. Everybody but Cecilia, who wished she could sink into the soft cushions she was sitting on to get away. Such inconsiderate merrymaking didn't last much longer, as Emilie, the resident butterfly, felt pity for the poor to-be-troubadour, and started passing around papers and pens for everyone to write down a name of their choice. She collected the slips of paper in her emptied and dried beer mug. A few moments and nervous bursts of laughter later Cecilia unrolled the name of certain Bella de Gunness for everyone to see.

_Was this funny to them?_ she thought, fear mingling in with her shame. This woman of de Gunness had a dubious reputation. While hugely popular in the court of the Duchess, several men who had courted for her favor had known to have vanished.

_And I am supposed to serenade her?_ She stared at each of her friends' faces, dead serious. They seemed to sift around nervously casting eyes at one another. No one stepped forward to confess they had written that name. One sour poet she didn't know that well stared at the floor, clearly avoiding her. Cecilia wanted to ask if it had been him. _Why,_ she tried to mouth, but not even a beep came out before the man had risen from his seat and walked out.

Slowly, like a porridge left on a quiet flame, her friends' unwillingness to own up to this bad joke made her mood bubble up in anger. The anger turned her humor into stubbornness, and the stubbornness made her a determined fool. She turned to Matthias, an actor a few years older than the rest of the group and asked him if he had an outfit she could possibly borrow.

He raised his eyebrow, "You want to serenade her as a man? Don't you think your voice will give you away?"

"It won't," she replied, her lips drawing into a narrow, pale line, before she continued an octave lower to prove her point. "We only hear what we want to hear, we only see what we want to see. I will draw no attention to who I truly am, and she will see past me."

Now it was her friends' turn to feel stunned in their stupor. In front of their eyes she changed into the knight-errant's outfit Matthias brought from his rooms. She tucked her short, black curls under her helmet, and left the visor up halfway so that her features could be obscured by the shadow it cast. Then, she inhaled deeply and stomped out of the house, heading towards de Gunness' mansion on the outer edges of Hauteville. A safe distance behind her followed Emilie and Matthias as witnesses.

* * *

Antique pink and covered in vines rose the main house in front of Cecilia. She measured it with her eyes like she would size up an opponent or a man. Sun had already set, insects buzzing in the dusk, yet the windows seemed dark. For the first time since she had left her friends she hesitated. Maybe Miss Bella wasn't even home. Maybe she had walked all the way here in this heavy outfit for nothing. She decided to take a peek around the house, at least to play for time before admitting any defeat.

As she turned the corner into the back garden, her eyes spotted soft light pooling out on a second floor balcony. There was a chair with its back turned towards her and a shadowy form with a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other. The light from inside surely gave only little help in reading; either this whole reading act was pretense or this person had the eyesight of a feline.

_Well,_ Cecilia shrugged, _I better get on with it before she retires inside for the night._

She scanned the little back garden, looking for a good place to stand so that the woman could see her but not identify her. For a while she considered placing herself between two rose bushes in the back, near a slightly stained fountain, but certain fresh-looking depressions on the ground on both sides on those particularly red blood-rose bushes creeped her out. Instead, she took her place near the trunk of a small tree, using its roots to prop herself a little higher for an illusion of standing taller than she really was.

Quietly, she hummed the opening notes of an old romantic but sad ballad, as if to tune her instrument. Then she coughed lightly.

The figure on the balcony lowered her book and sought out the person coughing in her back garden. Her eyes caught a figure standing next to the gnarly, stunted oak she had considered cutting down multiple times. The stranger was dressed as if on his way to tournament.

Bella stood up and leaned against the railing, ready to call for a guard or to wake her chef, a burly man whose size alone was enough to scare any half-blooded dimwit away. Just then the figure in the garden started singing.

_In my memory, only you_

_In my heart, only you_

_Moon governs your garden,_

_Dare not tell me why_

_I walk among these flowers alone_

_Dare not tell me why_

_You pray not to me and atone_

_Your kisses given yesterday_

_Burnt away in the sun_

_Dare not tell me_

_Dare not tell me why_

_You entice me still_

_As I sail into the waters__

_Of Sansretour..._

Miss de Gunness held her breath. _Who is this young man?_ she wondered. _Oh, he sings like a saint._ She couldn't make out any details of his countenance in the darkening night, but she found him taller than average, composed, and earnest in his performance.

As the song ended, he bent down on his right knee, raised his hands to his heart, and bowed his head to her. Bella was mesmerized. _Who are you?_ She tossed a kerchief to the stranger and watched him catch it just before it touched the ground. He kissed it gently before tucking it into his armor. Then the knight stood up, bowed once more, blew her a chaste kiss and started walking away.

"Ray!" de Gunness shouted and ran inside. Frantically she searched for a piece of stationery and a pen she could write her message on. When her chef finally appeared, she gave the note in a tiny envelope to him.

"Go! Deliver this to the young man who just left here!" came the orders. The huge man stopped rubbing his sleepy eyes, nodded and rushed out as fast as he could. He wanted no trouble from his mistress; he knew that his noble employer and liege, Bella de Gunness, had fallen in love, plunged head first into her infamously lethal fervor and she'd better get what she requested.

* * *

On her walk back through Hauteville Cecilia saw many windows lit up. There were people on their balconies, in their windows, staring straight her at. Slowly it dawned to her that they'd all heard her sing; rumors were already spinning, servants scurrying from house to house to transfer fodder for gossip. She felt poignantly self aware again, her armor of foolish bravery crumbling down like dried sand with each step she took. Her cheeks flushed so searing hot that she felt she would have to soon toss the armor aside just to be able to breathe.

Finally, she stopped on the brink of fainting. Matthias and Emily caught up with her, the first just stared at her, stunned, while the latter leaned closer and whispered,

"Don't turn now, but de Gunness sent a servant after you. Take heart and listen what he'll say."

As soon as Emilie stepped aside, a burly man reached them and handed over a perfumed note. "Miss Bella awaits your answer." He accompanied the curt words with a bow.

Cecilia kept her face under the shadow of the visor. She turned towards the closest street lamp, minding her position to the light, ripped the envelope open, and read with widening eyes:

_Signor,  
Your song has set my heart afire. Please visit my garden again tomorrow.  
B._

"What should I tell my mistress," asked the messenger, looming over her shoulder. All Cecilia could do was nod. The man nodded back quite sternly, accepting that as the yes his mistress wanted, and turned on his heels.

_Saint Lebioda, what have I gotten myself into,_ Cecilia thought and trembled.

Emilie ran back to her and took her arm. "You were marvelous," she whispered. "Everyone on hearing distance came out and just... listened. I'd vouch some of them didn't even breathe! You should've seen their faces, completely mesmerized I tell you." With that Emilie started walking her away, towards the city and their lodgings. Matthias shadowed them, still completely stunned. Cecilia felt his eyes on her back, his glare burning holes through and through.

As they finally reached their little commune of artists, they found their friends passed out on the couches and rugs they'd left them a few hours before.

"We'll tell them tomorrow," whispered Emilie and smiled. She kissed Cecilia on the cheek and rested her forehead against hers. "Once again, my dove, you were marvelous." With good night she withdrew from her and climbed up to her room on the upper floors.

Meanwhile, Matthias lingered nearby with that stunned expression on his face. Finally he cleared his throat and inquired if she needed help to get the armor off. She nodded absentmindedly, amazed that she had actually done it, seen the dare through, serenaded to a stranger. Elated as she was having pulled it off, she was descending fast from her adrenaline high. The fact that this stranger now wanted some sort of rendezvous with her had given her more food for thought than she had appetite for.

Matthias lifted her helmet off and set it on a table.

_I need to plan for tomorrow,_ Cecilia thought. _Should I go back as this besotted young man and continue playing the role or should I go as myself and confess directly it was all a dare? Maybe a bit of both?_

Matthias unclasped the fastenings of her breastplate.

Both options were scary in their own way, but she could not _not_ go, that would not be fair to this woman. Also, she wanted to leave this dare behind herself already.

A weight was lighted from her shoulders; Matthias had peeled the rest of the armor off of her. She was back in her comfy tunic and simple draped cotton pants. She saw him set the armor aside with the previous pieces he had collected from her. He turned back to her,

"I never knew you could sing like that," he said. His voice rippled with emotion quite unlike him, quite unlike the matter-of-a-fact Matthias they often called him.

"Sing like what?" she asked.

"Like there is nothing else," he answered.

She smiled at that. "Do you not think that is a bit over the top?"

"No," he answered.

The earlier stunned expression he'd worn all the way from Hauteville back home had been replaced by an earnest, honest-to-god look. _Whenever did he get so close?_ she wondered, her body reacting to the closeness in two contradicting ways; with panic in her throat and warm fastening of her heartbeat.

"Cecilia," Matthias said, and she forgot to breathe for a moment. "I think I love you," he confessed.

_Too close too close too close too close_ , her brain was screaming when he leaned in and kissed her. Her thoughts jumbled in her head, completely dazed. She froze.

Matthias pulled away, something utterly sad crept into his face and voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't m..."

She had already fled.

* * *

Next day was awkward indeed. Matthias had set the armor out in the common room, but was nowhere to be seen when Cecilia descended to get ready for take two of Serenading to Miss de Gunness. All the others were there, though, gawking and flattering her. Only Emilie watched her with a warm smile, encouraging her to pull the armor on and be done with it. She helped with the fastenings and helmet, while the others were raising glasses to tonight's success. Then they set out, the whole merry band, Cecilia first, Emilie close by, and all the rest of the merry band following a little farther behind.

There she was again. Bella de Gunness. Standing on her balcony, this time without the pretense of reading, cheeks flushed in anticipation. Cecilia could practically hear her purr when she took her place in the garden. She imagined her face blushing deeper red as she sang, she dreamed of her long eyelashes casting shadows in the candlelight while the song flowed and ebbed on, and while she embraced mist and shadows of an unattainable fantasy in her heart.

The song died and now Cecilia saw the woman rushing downstairs, out of the veranda door, in a mad dash towards her, until she threw herself against Cecilia, and dove into a fierce kiss. Cecilia responded. She had become this unknown troubadour, living the role to a tee, her arms wrapped around the woman she had serenaded to, around this living being sucking onto her lips. She wrapped her hands behind her head and responded in kind. Cherishing the shudder in Bella's breath, she brushed off Emilie's soft, embarrassed cough rising behind her out of her mind.

_Was this the state of ultimate awareness?_ In the eye of the whirlwind she stood calm while the sensations raged around her. There, a ripple on her skin, hot breath on her lips and suddenly Bella disentangled. She pushed up the visor, her eyes lusty on hers, her chest heaving, until she realized she had been duped.

Bella de Gunness' scream was otherworldly.

Stunned, Cecilia stepped back, which saved her from a slap right across her face.

The scream turned shriller.

Cecilia dropped the helmet and stumbled further back, close to losing her balance altogether had Emilie not caught her in time.

"Let's fly," she whispered and tugged Cecilia's arm.

And they so ran until their lungs burned for air.

* * *

Now, there have been many stories of Bella's vindictive nature. But Cecilia's two performances in de Gunness' own back garden quickly made her famous, lending her untouchable to her rage. She could not be destroyed by this scandal, because it was the scandal itself that had made her. Her gift laid bare by the most foolish dare had transformed her from unremarkable into instantly recognizable and lifted her into safety where she was not threatened by the likes of Bella de Gunness nor any other people basking in the lights of Beauclair.

As Cecilia came known, the fame that followed subjected her to streams of new people who wished to talk to her, wished to be seen in her presence, wished to give her flowers, dresses, venues, dinners, anything with unspoken, but understood price tags attached for return favors. They'd inevitably call back and want her time, they'd want her voice, they'd want her, incessantly. Her planner burst with meetings, appearances, concerts, cocktails, parties, and even the off night off would turn into a fan meeting and autograph signing as soon as the first bystander would holler out, "It's Miss Bellante!" often with special emphasis on _Miss_.

After a year of this, Cecilia felt exhausted. Whether it was a deliberate choice of hers or her own persona resurfacing under pressure and insomnia, her friends did not know, but she started to seclude herself, wrapping herself into an air of mystery and unattainability. She stopped performing at public venues. Instead, she would seek out private clubs, private performances, and invitation only events.

The larger her fame grew, the harder it became to reach her, and the more expensive her price tag grew, up to hundreds of crowns for a single song performed. She earned the nickname Nightingale. But as the stories often go, the higher her talents were valued, the cheaper and lonelier she felt. She trusted no one's affection. Emilie was still welcome company, her lightheartedness that did not pry and expected nothing in return cheered her, yet it did not make her feel any more connected to a person.

Then there was Matthias. They lived on the edges of each other's worlds. He wandered in and out of her reach, never too far way, but the mere thought of exposing herself to any emotional connection paralyzed her. She never reached out to him, their interactions were left hanging and strained. While he offered his presence and support, sometimes accompanied with sad expression of an abandoned puppy, the walls around her heart held guard always vigilant and watchful, so help her god she would not step any closer. There he was. Here she was. They never fully connected, never severed contact. And so it went on, their distant dance in the shadows.


	2. The Kindness of Strangers

* * *

It came as no surprise that Cecilia signed up for an evening with the Mandragora. Her fame gave her rudimentary protection against some of the more unsavory features of such an event, while the tradition of donning masks and assuming, even if pretentiously, anonymity among the artists and guests would give her some room to enjoy the other performances. She insisted that she would be scheduled to go first. All she was required to do was to show up and sing - as long as she'd agree to one meeting prior to discuss the details. Thus, money exchanged hands, couriers ran from front doors of certain benefactors to the back doors of anonymous patrons until a meeting with the hostess of the event, Orianna was set on the calendar.

So, on a bright and sunny summer day, Cecilia arrived at their meeting place, at Orianna's orphanage. They had passed each other before, fleetingly, in parties where they would acknowledge each others' respective station and companion, but never had they been formally introduced.

Cecilia looked around and hesitated. There lingered a certain gloom in the air: anticipation and fear mingled with relaxed sleepiness; an ominous haze on the senses. Children played tag out on the sunny yard. A housekeeper sat on a bench under a nearby shade of a large elm, watching the children, and occasionally throwing breadcrumbs to little sparrows and wrens. Idyllic, no?

_No._

The children seemed sluggish, like they were in a fever or half asleep. The sun made Cecilia feel faint, the shadows under the front door heightened in the light, and whatever was inside...she did not want to know about it.

The housekeeper had, unfortunately, seen her by then and pushed her wiry body up from the bench. She set a little cup filled with bread crumbs down where she had sat and straightened her modest and spotless dress.

"Miss Bellante, I presume?"

Cecilia nodded. The thin woman's gaze seemed to nail her in place and she couldn't run now. It was all too late, her path was set and it led through that dark, open door.

"Please follow me, miss."

Cecilia nodded again. The other woman stood by her side now, motioning her to follow. On the wooden bench the little birds had swarmed the bread cup, pecking relentlessly, wings flapping over one another until the cup was completely empty. The housekeeper smiled softly, encouraging her on. The kids stopped playing and followed them all the way to the door.

Inside the building felt cool. Cecilia's eyes grew accustomed to the shades fast and she took stock of the neatly placed toys around her. They strode past a few rooms with bunker beds organized in even neater rows, each with a folded blanket, towel, and a pillow placed on them. Most of them had a teddy bear tucked in. One of them lacked a toy, but had a child sleeping in it instead, with covers pulled all the way up to his nose.

"You'll have to excuse Jermaine, he's a bit under the weather today," the housekeeper said, with a voice as thin as herself, and guided Cecilia further. They came to a closed door at the end of the wing.

A soft voice answered to their quiet knock, "Please come in."

Cecilia stepped inside, while the housekeeper only peeked at her mistress, introduced Cecilia, and promptly shut the door behind her. Cecilia was left standing in front of an old desk, nervously pulling her hands. A pale red-headed woman glanced at her.

"Delighted to see you again, Miss Orianna," she managed to utter. The lady looked back at her, expressionless for a moment, then nodded slightly and motioned towards a chair in front of her.

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. Please take a seat," she said, completely stone-faced. Cecilia was certain this was the most honest display of disinterest for courtesies while still paying the obligatory compliments. None of the words uttered meant what they were supposed to mean; they were said for formalities' sake only and true to her habits, Orianna made it clear, unapologetically so.

Nonetheless, Cecilia sat down and nodded, politely turning her head to the side to avoid direct eye contact until her hostess would initiate it. Orianna had been in the middle of writing a letter, and while Cecilia herself settled into the chair, the lady finished her missive with her signature. The pen flew softly over the paper, ink kissing her name onto it. Albeit Orianna's face was expressionless and her eyes unemotionally blank, her wrists and hands were expressive enough for her guest to understand that she was angry and that letter would descend her wrath upon some poor sod.

"Cecilia Bellante, right?" she asked, tilting her head ever so slightly. She dipped the pen into ink and started writing again, on a new sheet of paper.

"Yes, Miss Orianna."

"And you will sing at our little soiree with Mandragora?" Orianna's eyes did not blink.

"Yes, if that would please you, Miss Orianna," Cecilia responded and for the first time saw a hint of amusement flicker over the distinct features of this strange woman: the slightest of crooked smiles flashed across her lips to quickly disappear again.

"Do you know any of the local peasant songs?" she asked, blowing on the fresh ink before folding the paper into two. Her eyes stayed on its smooth surface as she nonchalantly lifted it and fanned herself a few times. Cecilia stared at her wrist as if in trace and nodded.

"Yes, do you have a specific one in mind, Miss Orianna?"

 _Why do I keep on repeating her name?_ The question flashed through her head, but disappeared as quickly. Her mind felt hazy, as if it were filled with cotton balls. The thought of plump and soft tangles of cotton fibers running through her head from ear to ear made her sleepy.

"I've always liked the one that starts with wolves asleep... do you know the one?" Orianna was still fanning herself with the folded paper. Her gaze now directly aimed at Cecilia. Cecilia nodded.

 _I want to be that damn paper,_ she thought. _Why, that makes no sense. These cotton balls in my head, why don't they clear out already?_

Another crooked smile, of almost canine quality. The stale air in the room made her eyelids weary, it felt downright unsettling in her chest. _No, it's not the air, it's her. That little braided ribbon around her head, all those freckles, has anyone kissed those cold freckles? Would she blink at that?_

"You mean the Lullaby of Woe, miss?" she finally managed to utter.

"Correct. I'll give you a considerable bonus if you would be kind enough to include that into your repertoire, Miss Bellante." She stopped fanning herself and slid the paper across the table to Cecilia, then folded her hands onto her lap.

Fighting against the slight tremor in her hands, Cecilia reached for the paper and unfolded it. One thousand crowns. Her eyes widened at the sheer size of the sum. She started to ask if Orianna was sure, if she hadn't made a mistake, if one song was really the only thing expected from her for such a kingly reward, but the question froze to her lips in front of the unblinking stare.

"I see this request carries some weight," she said instead.

"Indeed," Orianna replied, then finally turned her head away. Small turquoise earrings swayed with the motion. She picked a glass of rose wine from the edge of the desk and sipped. "Pardon me. I've been a terrible hostess."

That blood-chilling smile again, those mesmerizing eyes.

"Would you care for a drink?"

Cecilia respectfully shook her head. "No, but thank you for offering, much obliged." She could not risk becoming even more disoriented. Even without any spirits in her blood stream she had a bad premonition that she would soon sink through the floor into some dark cellar under the orphanage and never get out.

"I am expecting a dear friend to the soiree," Orianna gave as a way of explanation. "The song is a special gift for him, you see." She locked her eyes with Cecilia's. All the singer could see was her brown eyes staring at her, pupils wide open and filling her vision, as if the woman had flown over the desk to hold her face right in front of her.

"I expect it to be perfect."

All Cecilia could do was nod. Orianna leaned to her left side, and pulled out a red leather purse. The weight of the purse and her motions handling it accentuated her collarbones. She placed it together with the wine glass she'd held until now on her desk before rising from her seat and softly stepping around the furniture. Cecilia could've sworn she heard nothing, so silently she moved. Her own clumsy standing up, the shuffling of her dress, and the creaking of her chair sounded like a rock troll in a porcelain shop in contrast.

Orianna handed the purse over to her guest with both hands. It surely carried the weight of thousand crowns with it.

"I will see you at the soiree." Orianna opened the office door and motioned Cecilia out.

* * *

Dead of Summer arrived with days slowing down into a suffocating, humid mess. Still, Cecilia would insist on going out in the heat of the late afternoon. She had an appointment with the most famous dressmaker in all Toussaint and like always, she would not hear about rescheduling. It was only a day until her performance with Mandragora, after all.

Yet when proposed that she would have to pick, she could commit to no outfit. The most gorgeous ones would drown her in frills, trip her over with their ribbons, and wash all color off of her face. The simple ones that would fit her better she found utterly boring. Sweat dripped into the corners of her eyes while she browsed. It stung until her eyes watered and she was done giving a damn about the cursed dresses altogether. Monsieur La Chance fought his urge to faint upon her storming out of his boutique without a dress: _Saint Lebioda, what a scandal!_

She stepped back onto the mucky streets. A faint breeze blowing down along the slopes of the city seduced her to walk up the hill and onto the bridge connecting the city to the ducal palace. Some street vendors had ventured to the cooler air as well and set up their stalls against the guardrails, beneath the slivers of shadows cast down by the adjoining statues.

Cecilia's eyes caught the sight of ornate perfume boxes. Ever since she had met with Orianna she had wanted to purchase a pretty little trinket for the matron of the soiree to thank her. Yet, not unlike the situation with her outfit, she hadn't been able to commit to anything. _These boxes looked suitable enough, though._ She picked an octagonal container with opulent birds of paradise painted on the sides. Meticulously engraved flowers unfurled on the thin lid. It felt like mahogany. Cecilia lifted the box to her nose and inhaled.

 _Caramel. If Orianna does not care for this, she can easily pass it onward or stuff it into a cupboard,_ she thought and turned to the merchant to inquire on the price. The shadow falling on her sifted a shade darker.

"Beautiful."

The voice was foreign to her as was the tickle of air against her ear, yet she was so in her own thoughts that she did not acknowledge the full strangeness of it. Her right thumb slowly brushed over the engraving while her lips moved slowly to exhale the words, "Yes it is." Cecilia rolled the box on her palm, savoring the feel of the engravings against it.

"How much?" Now the foreign accent snapped her to attention. She turned around and almost jumped back, so close this stranger was. Dark, fashionably scruffy hair with a little wave to it, piercing grey eyes and short, charcoal black beard cut to perfection. His collar was buttoned all the way up despite the heat. Only the slightest shimmer of sweat clung to his forehead. He smelled faintly of sandalwood, pipe tobacco, and a hint of something metallic.

"For the handsome gentleman, only fifty," the merchant said. Before Cecilia could protest, money had been exchanged and the stranger held her gift-for-Orianna-to-be in his hands. She frowned, half at the man, half at herself for not acting faster, but the man just smiled back at her annoyance, amusement rising all the way up into the small lines in the corners of his eyes. He lifted the box higher up in the air, into the sun and rotated it to admire all the details of the engravings.

"Would you allow me make up for my impertinence, my Lady," he said and rather impertinently guided her by his hand, softly placed against the small of her back, to another merchant selling chilled lemonade a few steps away. With matching speed to the earlier theft he'd pulled off with her trinket, he purchased two glasses of peach lemonade with fresh strawberries floating in the drink plus shavings of ice on top. Cecilia looked sideways to the booth operator and noticed the runes on his sleeves.

"Well, that would explain the ice," she said aloud.

"It would indeed," the stranger chimed in and gently clinked his glass against hers. "Here's to magic and all the other beautiful things in this world."

"Beautiful things like stolen ornaments, you mean," Cecilia said, ice in her glass melting as fast in the sun as the chill was disappearing from her voice.

"Beautiful things like that but not excluding others," he said and winked.

 _This man is too much,_ Cecilia thought, indignant and intrigued at the same time. She took a sip of the lemonade and enjoyed the prickling of the ice and bubbles rolling on her tongue. The combination of sweet and bitter sucked on the insides of her cheeks. She touched her lips at the sensation. Of course he noticed it. Had she done it on purpose, out of instinct? She wasn't sure what the exact reason was, but this meaningless flirty ping-pong was a game she knew she could play to win.

"This drink surely does things to one's mouth," he said, moving his eyes between her eyes and lips.

Cecilia almost coughed her drink out at the directness. Boldness. _What was the word he himself had used before... His impertinence? Yes, that was it._

Meanwhile, the man smirked and downed the rest of his lemonade in one swig, leaving the strawberries into a messy, wet heap on the bottom of the glass.

"A stroll?" he suggested.

She nodded without thinking. _When had thinking become so unfashionable?_

They headed higher up, towards the promise of cooler breeze. An hour later they were still walking without a destination in the palace gardens. Their shoulders would brush against one another occasionally. Their banter was interspersed with low laughter. As if agreed upon, they did not discuss any personal details, but kept their banter to anecdotes, news of the world, the shenanigans of famous people. He did allude to the fact that he was a bit of a connoisseur, in the city to sample and purchase some old wines to import back to Cintra and she did mention that she was to perform at Mandragora, something he had never heard before and seemed very curious about.

An hour more and they sat down side by side on the grass in the garden. He swiped some dust off of his jacket before taking it off and folding it down beside him. He had asked if he could escort her to the soiree, he would so desire to hear her sing. She had eagerly agreed. They listened to the birds and people's conversations near by. Cecilia hid her smile behind her hand when they listened into some of the juicier gossiping. Then it struck her that they had never even introduced themselves.

She raised an eyebrow at him. The stranger was leaning back onto his elbows, his face and body stretched in the sun, an amused smile playing on his lips while he continued to listen to the palace staff theorizing on how much in love exactly the captain of the guard really was with the Duchess. Admittedly, their measures of affection were quite on the carnal side.

"May I ask you for your name?" she quietly asked. He lifted his head and squinted at her. Slowly, as if woken from a slumber, he stretched his arms and legs, then grinned and inched closer to her.

"Why?"

She felt sheepish now, thrown off her balance and game. He moved still closer, his grin now definitely wolfish.

"I mean..." she stammered, "Don't people normally introduce themselves..." her eyes followed him and he leaned close to her face for the longest second of her life before stopping his advance and picking up his jacket instead.

He got up on his feet and offered his hand to help her up, too. She hesitated for a moment before taking it.

Her breath caught in her throat, so fast the man pulled her up, off the ground and straight into his arms. With that same swift motion his lips landed on hers, his arms around her. After the initial shock she let go and responded, diving into the seduction of it all; the nibble on her lower lip, the tip of her tongue on his, more than a tip his tongue in her mouth, the breathlessness that followed.

Finally, he pulled back and gently stroked her cheek. "If I had told you, you would not have been kissed by a stranger." His voice must've been a full octave lower now, his eyes darker grey.

"I won't deny that," Cecilia managed. He released her from his embrace and offered his arm instead.

"Let me walk you back to your apartment, or wherever you wish." As she slid her hand around his arm he leaned to her ear and whispered.

"You can call me Cintrian. Everyone else in this city does."

Cecilia felt a little shiver run along her spine at that. She wasn't sure if that was the good or the bad kind, she was only sure that she still didn't know his name. Nonetheless, she cast her eyes down and walked out of the gardens with him.

* * *

In the end she borrowed one of Emilie's dresses. The only semi-modest dress her friend owned. It was of deep indigo and purple mixture of silk and cotton, and it complemented nicely her black hair and the tones of her complexion. In fact, Emilie had tried to talk her into something more extravagant, more suitable for an artiste, as she put it, but Cecilia had refused. She might be a hopeless flirt but outright harlotry she left for others. Emilie laughed at that, not offended, but not totally convinced that that was the case, either.

Time to leave. Cecilia checked her image one more time in the mirror. Her smile froze. Matthias' reflection was staring back at her. She turned around but had already gone. Shrugging it off like she always did she waltzed downstairs and out the building.

* * *

The throng of people was maddening. Orianna's estate in Hauteville, normally spacious and opulent, now buzzed with guests, artists, nobles, escorts, and servants. The sound of everyone talking at the same time was jarring, the smell of alcohol and sweets was dizzying. Luckily, at least the event played out in the inner courtyard, in the fresh air.

Cecilia had hoped to see Orianna and the friend she had paid so much money for to indulge him with the Lullaby of Woe. To her disappointment, the benefactor of the soiree was nowhere to be seen during her performance, her guest even less so. But that was the only disappointment she had that night. The crowd loved her, the Koviri orchid the Cintrian had bought her adorned her temple. Its beauty and scent made her heart swell and stomach tighten. After the final number the people roared in applause, maybe some of them were drunk already, but nonetheless all of them stood chanting _Brava_ for her. She flung the orchid to the crowd with kisses and bowed out.

Smiling from excitement, she hurried to meet the Cintrian. She found him leaning leisurely against a pillar next to a table laden with pastries. He shoot her an admiring look as she approached, his eyes framed by an embroidered silk mask. _Damn him for being so handsome_ , she thought and let him guide her further between the small tables with different types of sweets, fruit, and alcohol.

"My apologies for robbing you off your perfume the other day," he hummed into her ear when they had finally stopped at a table with little box wrapped in gift paper and red bow on it. "Let me make up for that." He softly kissed her temple and placed the gift on her hands.

Cecilia unwrapped it impatiently, the paper falling down on the table and onto the floor tiles in shreds. From under it the prettiest of heart-shaped box emerged, and she kissed him, the hum of the people around them incessant. "Open," he whispered and she turned back around. He wrapped his hands around her waist and kissed her neck while she worked on the lid. Finally, it yielded and popped open. A little bottle of perfume lay inside, a scent of citrus, spices, and Koviri orchids.

Cecilia tapped some of it behind her ear. The Cintrian leaned in and breathed it in. His arms tightening around her waist he whispered, "It suits you." He moved to her other ear and inhaled again, "But you smell even better". At that her stomach clenched with such a fervor that she had to fight the urge to cross her legs.

Above on the balcony, she saw Orianna for the first time that evening. She gazed over all the guests, alone, dressed in black lace. Cecilia felt her eyes sweep past her, towards the entrance gate, looking for someone, standing watch, before she chose to look down at the Ofieri mage starting his performance of manipulating water. She wondered if she had found her performance of the song she had paid so highly for, perfect as she'd requested. Then her thoughts went hazy upon the Cintrian's lips touching her ear.

"Ever fucked a stranger?" he whispered. Her mind was woozy, hesitation set in some theoretical debate in the depths of her frontal lobe, but the environment, whatever was in the food and drink they were serving, whatever was in this perfume, his voice, sent desire throbbing through her, bypassing all reason. So she took his hand and started guiding him across the shallow pool, towards the performers' dressing rooms.

They passed the Ofieri mage floating in the air, they passed lanterns ready to be set in flight to the skies. They passed the guard on the bottom of the stairs to the dressing rooms, flowers, paintings, opulent tapestries and carpets, smooth wooden panels and stairs. They arrived into her makeshift room. The window was open, the skies dark blue, beautiful, and full of stars. The smell of flowers fresh from her perfume and air surrounded them, lanterns rose in the sky, dolphins magically formed in the pool below them.

She kissed him as the door closed. He smiled into the kiss then spun her around. His lips found again the nape of her neck, his hand crawled across her bodice like a teasing little spider until it reached her throat. He held her gently, kissed the nape of her neck again...

Something sharp and hot zipped across her throat.

Wet, sticky drops ran down to her chest.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes.

She clasped both of her hands to her throat.

Blood coated her fingers.

She stumbled backwards but he was no longer there to catch her.

* * *

_There lies a grave in the shadow of Lassommoir,_

_There sleeps the Nightingale of Beauclair,_

_Fallen to dirt, no higher can her body soar._

_Only one guard stands in sight,_

_Carries yellow carnations to lay down with her,_

_And cries into the wee hours of the night._

_Roaming, restless in his fervor of love gone,_

_Committed knight-errant, an actor,_

_Lived, breathed only her, for her, no more_

_The Nightingale of Beauclair._


End file.
